by Chris Ryan
‘Of course,’ Felix continued, ‘keys are rather limited in their application.’
‘Eh?’
‘What I mean is, generally speaking, one key will only open one door. It would be much more useful, don’t you think, if we had a key that would open any door.’
‘I guess.’
Felix smiled. He looked around the room for his rucksack and rummaged inside it, then withdrew what looked like a large staple gun, with a long, narrow blade protruding from one end.
‘What’s that?’ Ricky asked.
‘That,’ said Felix, ‘is a snap gun. Unbelievably useful. Think of it as a gift, if you like.’ He threw the snap gun across the room to Ricky – who caught it just in time. ‘I’ve got something else in here for you,’ Felix added as he looked inside his rucksack again, before pulling out a solid mortise lock. ‘You can practise on this if you like. You just insert the snap gun into the lock, then start squeezing the handle until you get a fit. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’ He flung the mortise lock across the room as well.
Ricky caught it with his free hand, but winced as it bent his fingers back. Felix, though, already had his attention on something else. He felt into the inside of his jacket pocket and withdrew a book – a paperback, rather dog-eared. He spun it across the room to Ricky, who had to catch it in the crook of his arms because his hands were full.
‘You like reading,’ Felix said. ‘So read.’
Ricky didn’t even look at the cover. He just let the book fall onto the coffee table, then laid the snap gun and mortise lock down next to it. ‘What good are books to a thief?’ he said.
Felix gave him a serious kind of look. Then he limped over to join Ricky on the far side of the room by the window. He pointed out towards London. ‘See that,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Canary Wharf. The City of London. And beyond that, the Houses of Parliament. There are just as many thieves in those places as there are in any prison. Which ones do you think have read more books? The ones in power, or the ones in jail?’
Ricky was silent.
‘Read the book, Coco,’ Felix said as he stumped back towards the exit. ‘And stop calling yourself a thief.’
‘Why?’ Ricky said. ‘It’s what I am, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, you never know,’ Felix said, passing one hand over his bald head. ‘One day you might surprise yourself.’
He left the room. Ricky stood by the window and listened to the sound of his strange new acquaintance letting himself out of the flat.
6
KIM’S GAME
As Ricky stood in the shower, watching the dirty water sluice down the plughole, he had to admit that Felix might have been right. He was filthy. He doused himself in shampoo and soap and came out feeling cleaner than he had done in months.
In the bedroom he found that the clothes hanging in the wardrobe and folded in the drawers fitted him perfectly. He chose a pair of jeans, a Hollister top and some brand-new Nikes, and tried not to think too hard about who had put these clothes here and how they knew his exact size. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he had to inhale sharply. Sure, his hair was still shoulder-length and straggly, but he suddenly looked more like the kid he’d been a year ago: the ordinary kid, with a mum, a dad, a sister and a home to call his own.
He felt that pang of solitude and sorrow that always wormed its way to the surface when he thought about his family. But he quickly buried it again. He was on his own now, and he couldn’t afford to start feeling sorry for himself.
He stepped back into the main room. Felix’s book was still lying face down on the coffee table.
– Are we going to read it?
– Have you got anything better to do?
The answer was no. Ricky picked up the book and read the title. Kim, by Rudyard Kipling. The pages were yellowed and had the musty smell of old libraries. Ricky liked that smell. He nestled down on the sofa and started to read.
For several hours, he was lost in the book. The story unfolded of an orphaned kid on the streets of India, a strange tale of adventure and mystery. Ricky was transfixed as Kim came under the influence of the British Secret Service, and his eyes were glued to the page as a jewel merchant – himself a Secret Service operative – started training Kim in the techniques of spycraft.
Spycraft.
By the time he turned the last page, it was dark outside. Ricky’s eyes lingered on the final paragraph. As he regretfully closed the book, he also closed his eyes.
– Is the book some sort of message? Is that what he’s trying to do, turn me into some sort of . . .
Ricky couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘spy’. It just sounded too ridiculous. And yet here he was, plucked from the streets and surrounded by—
‘Good book?’
Ricky started. Across the gloomy room he saw Felix standing in the doorway.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ Ricky accused.
‘No,’ said Felix. ‘It’s something I’m very—’
‘Yeah, yeah, don’t tell me, it’s something you’re very good at.’ For some reason Ricky felt incredibly angry. Like he’d been duped. Felix hadn’t mentioned anything about spying. Now Ricky felt like he was just playing stupid, stupid games. ‘What is it this evening? Wine gums?’
‘God, no. Can’t stand them. But if you’d like a cola bottle—’
‘I’m going out,’ Ricky shouted.
He stormed past Felix, who watched him without expression, slamming the front door of the flat as he left. The lift on the other side of the corridor was waiting for him, and it moved maddeningly slowly as it carried him down to the ground floor. Here a concierge sitting behind the large marble reception desk nodded politely. Ricky felt the concierge’s eyes follow him as he crossed the entrance hall, and he felt a moment of paranoia. But when he looked back over his shoulder, the concierge was simply reading a magazine.
It was humid outside. The apartment block faced out onto a large pedestrian square with small, neatly trimmed trees spaced symmetrically, and benches around the edges. Only a few of the benches were occupied. A couple kissing at the far end. A tramp, fiercely clutching a can of beer. Next to him were two youths, a boy and a girl, their faces covered with piercings. They were Thrownaways, Ricky could tell at a glance. He kept his distance, but found himself wondering where they would be sleeping tonight.
The thought stopped him in his tracks. He looked back up at the apartment block behind him.
– Where will you be sleeping, Ricky, if we just walk away now?
His eyes crept up to the top floor. He wondered if Felix was at the window, looking out.
– If you walk away now, what are your chances of coming back? You’ve got an opportunity, Ricky. It won’t last for ever, but while it does you should milk it for all it’s worth. Smile sweetly at the guy. Listen to everything he has to say. You can do a runner any time you like.
‘Just not tonight,’ Ricky muttered out loud. He did an about turn and walked back into the apartment block lobby. This time, the concierge’s eyes really did follow him all the way to the lift.
Back on the top floor, he let himself into the flat with the key he’d had such trouble finding. Felix was still there, looking out of the window as Ricky had imagined him. He turned and raised one eyebrow.
‘Sorry,’ said Ricky. He did his best to look like he meant it. Like he hadn’t just returned because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. ‘Got a bit freaked out.’
‘Don’t apologize, Coco. You can leave whenever you want.’
‘I . . . I don’t want to.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Felix held up a pack of playing cards. ‘Let’s play Kim’s game.’
Ricky blinked at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought you said you’d read the book.’
‘I have.’
‘So you’ll remember the jewel game.’
Ricky nodded. Now he thought about it, he did remember it. In the book, a serva
nt had shown Kim a tray full of jewels. When the tray was covered up, Kim had to describe what jewels were there. The agent had practised it over and over, with different objects, until he was able to memorize almost anything at a single glance.
‘Can’t stretch to jewels, I’m afraid,’ Felix added. ‘We’ll use playing cards. That’s how I learned it in the army. All special forces practise this till they’re blue in the face.’
They sat opposite each other on either side of the coffee table. Felix laid out ten cards and gave Ricky twenty seconds to memorize them. He got seven right.
‘Not bad, for a first time,’ Felix said. But Ricky could tell by the way he looked at him that he was more impressed than he wanted to let on. ‘Now try again. I’ll shuffle the pack.’
It took eight goes before Ricky could memorize all ten cards. Felix reduced the time he was allowed to look at them to fifteen seconds. Then ten. It was tiring work but when, after an hour, Felix called a halt, Ricky was strangely disappointed. He was in the zone and wanted to continue.
‘It’s getting late, Coco,’ Felix said. ‘You need your beauty sleep.’ He frowned. ‘No offence intended.’
Ricky ignored that comment. He watched Felix collect the cards and stack them neatly on the coffee table.
‘That thing you mentioned,’ he said. ‘About learning this game in the army.’
‘What about it?’
‘Is that where you lost your leg? In the army?’
Felix sniffed. He looked as though he was deciding whether or not to answer. ‘Yeah,’ he said finally.
‘What happened?’
‘I already told you. A bullet.’
‘Yeah, but . . . how?’
‘I was an intelligence officer. And I made a mistake. A very bad mistake.’ He gave Ricky a piercing look. ‘It’s always your mistakes that get you. Remember that.’
‘What was yours?’
‘I used a torch.’
Ricky blinked, not understanding, so Felix continued.
‘I went undercover into an enemy-held village. It was night time. I needed to search an empty house and I used my torch to help me see. Trouble is, if someone’s watching, a torch is the worst thing to use at night. When people see a light moving around inside a house, it always raises their suspicions. The best thing to do is switch a lamp on. Nobody bats an eyelid about that. But there was no lamp inside the house, and I didn’t have night-vision goggles . . .’
His voice trailed away for a moment as Ricky sat in stunned silence.
‘Anyway,’ Felix said suddenly, ‘an enemy sympathizer saw me leaving from a distance. He waited until he thought I was clear of the village, then he took a pot shot and got lucky.’
‘What sort of gun was it?’
‘Does it matter?’ Felix said. His voice was unusually forceful.
‘Sorry,’ Ricky said quickly. He felt he’d overstepped the mark. This wasn’t something Felix liked to discuss.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment, before Felix said: ‘A 7.62 Nato round from a bolt-action M24 sniper rifle.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ricky said again.
‘Don’t be. I was one of the lucky ones. A few centimetres higher and I’d have been killed.’
Ricky absorbed that information for a moment. ‘Is that what you are, then?’ he said. ‘An intelligence officer?’
‘What I am,’ said Felix, ‘is very tired. It’s nearly ten o’clock. I need to get some sleep, and so do you. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.’
And without another word he left the flat.
As Felix walked out of that luxury apartment in the Docklands, a much younger man sprinted down a flight of stone steps into the basement of a derelict building in a dark, forgotten side street of Soho. He was sweating, out of breath and frightened.
The building was called Keeper’s House. It had been condemned for years. Its windows were boarded up, its walls covered in graffiti, and lengths of guttering hung limply from the roof. Inside, it smelled of wet rot and neglect. The rooms on the ground floor were littered with old furniture – mouldy, ripped sofas, tables riddled with woodworm. Anything remotely usable had been moved down to the basement.
The young man’s name was Tommy. He was sixteen years old, with scruffy black hair and a pronounced Adam’s apple. He wore a permanent scowl and always seemed to have cuts on his knuckles or face – the result of some fight or other. He had a lot of fights on the street.
He burst into the main basement room.
‘Thought you’d forgotten about us,’ rasped a voice. Tommy looked over to see a figure, slightly smaller than him, hunched over in the corner of the room. It was too gloomy to make out his features very clearly, but Tommy recognized Hunter’s voice well enough.
‘Would I do that?’ Tommy replied sarcastically.
He peered around the large basement room. It was lit by an old standard lamp in the corner – somehow, Hunter had managed to rig up some electricity – and contained a mismatched collection of furniture and people.
The furniture was old. The people were all young. Tommy was easily the eldest, and one of the kids, who was sitting in the corner hugging his knees, couldn’t be more than twelve, though he swore blind he was fifteen. There were eight of them in the room, including Tommy and Hunter. The others were either still out on the street or in one of the other basement rooms that adjoined this one.
Tommy looked anxiously over his shoulder, then back towards Hunter.
There was a moment of silence. Then Hunter moved from the shadows into the centre of the room. His features became visible. Hunter was in his sixties, with a square jaw and a nose that had been broken several times. He had a sharp, violent face and watery, greedy eyes.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded.
Tommy closed his eyes. ‘Police,’ he breathed.
A nasty pause as Hunter stared at him. ‘Did they follow you?’
‘I think I lost them.’
Another silence. Tommy felt the eyes of all the other kids in the room burning into him.
‘You think you lost them?’
‘Y . . . yeah . . .’
‘Well,’ Hunter said in a dangerous half-whisper, ‘that’s all right then, isn’t it? He thinks he lost them. You got anything for me?’
Tommy swallowed hard, then nodded. He stepped further into the room and held out a fat black wallet. Hunter snatched it and started rifling through its contents. He clearly wasn’t interested in the credit cards – they were too easy to trace. But he fished out several notes and a handful of change which he shoved in his pocket before discarding the wallet. ‘That the best you can do?’ he said. ‘On a Saturday night?’
Tommy nodded.
‘And I suppose you want something to eat? Go on then, son. It’s over there.’
Tommy had already noticed the pizza boxes on a table against the right-hand wall. There were five, all open. He walked up to the table to see that only one of the boxes had any food left in it – two slices of cold, congealed pizza. He knew not to complain. Instead, he grabbed a slice and started cramming it hungrily into his mouth.
The blow, when it came, knocked all the wind from his lungs and half the food from his mouth. He collapsed, barely able to breathe, and saw Hunter standing over him, still carrying the short, stout cudgel he’d just used to whack him in the stomach.
As Tommy struggled for air, Hunter bent down over him.
‘Listen to me, you idiot,’ he hissed, waving the cudgel in front of Tommy’s face. ‘If you ever, ever lead the police anywhere near here, you’ll get something a lot sharper than this in your guts. You got that?’
Tommy tried to nod, but a lump of semi-chewed pizza had become stuck in his throat and all he could do was make a harsh, choking sound. He was aware of Hunter standing up and addressing the rest of the kids in the room.
‘The same goes for the rest of you,’ the man shouted. ‘Anybody got a problem with that?’
Nobody replied. They w
ouldn’t dare. Like Tommy, they all hated Hunter. But in return for a daily stream of stolen cash, he gave them something they needed. A roof over their heads. Food. And something more important than both of these: safety in numbers. Because when you worked the streets, there was nothing more important than that.
It was 9 a.m. exactly when Felix returned. Ricky’s bed was untouched. He hadn’t moved from the sofa. Thirty playing cards were spread out in front of him. He stared at them for fifteen seconds. Then he closed his eyes. ‘Queen of hearts,’ he said. ‘Two of spades, five of diamonds, nine of clubs . . .’
Thirty seconds later, he had recited the name of every card in order. He opened his eyes again. Felix was leaning on his walking stick and staring at him carefully.
‘Very good, Coco,’ he murmured. ‘Really very good. Perhaps we’ll make something of you yet.’
Ricky smiled. ‘It’s just a party game, though. That’s all.’
‘We’ll see,’ Felix said slyly. ‘We’ll see.’
But inside Ricky’s head, another conversation was taking place, this one with Ziggy.
– You’ve won him over. That’s good. Let’s keep it that way. The things he’s teaching you will be useful on the street. Learn what you can from him. Improve yourself.
– And when the time comes to leave?
– Then you leave.
PART TWO
7
WEAPONS
The weeks that followed passed quickly. Ricky’s days were full and there was no time at all for him to spend the £100 living allowance that Felix handed over every Saturday morning. Not that he needed the money. Every time he left the flat, he returned to find the fridge full, his clothes cleaned and the flat tidy. He never saw the person – or people – responsible. When he mentioned it, Felix had simply said, ‘You haven’t got time for housework,’ and refused to discuss it any more.
So each week, Ricky squirrelled his money away, inside a sock which he kept under the mattress. It would come in useful, he told himself, for when he finally walked out of there.